“No. Wait a bit. Wasn’t he that history don?”
“That’s the one. We met him when we were investigating Melissa’s murder.”
“Ah, Melissa. The one James had a fling with before he disappeared.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“So why William Dalrymple?”
“I’m curious,” said Agatha. “I want to know how passionate history buffs can get about their subject.”
“You’re wondering if Frampton could get passionate enough to kill?”
“Yes.”
“Very far-fetched. Although I must admit I still cannot believe it was Harry who murdered Robin Barley. Of course, we may be dealing with two murderers.”
“Let’s see what William has to say.”
William Dalrymple was at home. “I hope we are not disturbing you too late in the evening,” said Agatha. “Remember us?”
“Yes, indeed. Please come in.”
He led them up to his sitting-room on the first floor. It smelt pleasantly of leather from the old leather-bound books which lined the shelves.
“Sherry?” asked William.
“Please,” said Agatha.
He disappeared and came back with a crystal sherry decanter and three glasses. “Now,” he said, pouring sherry and handing them a glass each, “how can I help you?”
Agatha quickly outlined the murders of Mrs. Witherspoon, Barry Briar and Robin Barley and explained why they were interested in Peter Frampton.
“Now where have I heard that name before? Seventeenth century, you say?”
“Yes, a good-looking man, wavy grey hair, well-tailored, runs a building business.”
“Ah, I think I know whom you mean. Academics can be quite cruel to amateurs. It was, let me see, a few years ago, a colleague at the college invited him to dinner at high table. Unfortunately, Professor Andrew Catsworth-we nickname him Catty-was present.
“Now he considers himself the ultimate authority on the seventeenth century in general and the period of the Civil War in particular. Americans often get confused when we talk about the Civil War, thinking we mean their Civil War in the nineteenth century. Where was I? Ah, yes. Mr. Frampton was burning with enthusiasm and seemed to have a good local knowledge. I mean, he had unearthed a lot of local facts from studying old history books of the villages about Worcester. He said he was considering writing a book, a sort of little-known facts of the Commonwealth.”
“Commonwealth?” asked Agatha, wondering if the gentle don had moved on to the twentieth century.
“Cromwell’s reign was called the Commonwealth,” explained Charles.
“I knew that,” lied Agatha.
“Then why did you ask?”
“Just showing an intelligent interest,” said Agatha, glaring at Charles.
William cleared his throat apologetically. “Frampton became quite fired up, saying that the story of a Roundhead officer, John Towdey, had never been published. Evidently the village of Towdey is named after his family who owned the manor-house, long since demolished. This John Towdey fell in love with Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s daughter who was staying with friends. Trusting him, she had confided in him that her father had taken refuge with Simon Lovesey. He reported her father’s whereabouts to the Cromwellian army. Lamont was taken prisoner and hanged. His daughter, Priscilla, never spoke to Towdey again and it is rumoured she died of a broken heart.
“Professor Catsworth asked in a sneering voice if he had proof of this story. Frampton said it had been handed down through word of mouth. Catsworth proceeded to take Frampton to pieces in front of everyone at the high table. ‘You amateur historians, always looking for romance, are dangerous,’ he said. ‘Concentrate on facts.’ He began to reel off a list of academic sources proving that it was Lovesey who’d betrayed Lamont. Then he ended up by saying that with Frampton’s imagination, he ought to be writing historical bodice rippers. Frampton simply rose from the table and walked out. I have never seen a man so furious.
“We ticked the professor off after he’d left and the professor laughed and said he’d made all those facts up and Frampton was too stupid and amateur to realize it. It was a prime piece of academic spite.”
“What was your impression of Frampton?” asked Agatha.
“I was so sorry for him that I didn’t form much of an impression except that I did think at first that he was an extremely vain man. But he did not deserve such treatment.”
“It’s hardly enough to kill three people over and I can’t see the connection anyway,” said Charles.
They talked some more about the case and then left. “Another dead end,” said Charles as they drove home.
Agatha grumbled agreement, but as they were heading down the hill into Chipping Norton, she said, “The diary. I forgot the diary.”
“The one Paul’s got on his bookshelves? What about it?”
“Just suppose,” said Agatha slowly, “that Frampton got hold of some records, or some word-of-mouth evidence that Sir Geoffrey Lamont had written that diary. Suppose he thought it was somewhere in Ivy Cottage and might contain evidence of his daughter’s love for a Roundhead, he might be desperate to get his hands on it and publish his findings and send the result to Professor Carsworth.”
“That’s mad. I mean, I agree he may have wanted to get his hands on the diary, but to kill to get it! Anyway, let’s call on Paul. I mean, didn’t you read the diary?”
“Only skipped to the bit about the treasure.”
“We’ll look in the diary when we get back and see if there’s anything about his daughter. And then what? Go to the police? Can you imagine what Runcorn would make of it?”
“But Bill would listen,” said Agatha. “I mean, they’ve never really thought of anyone else but Harry.”
“Okay, let’s see if your friend, Paul, is at home.”
Paul had just arrived home before them. He had taken Zena back to her cottage and had been kissing her good night, more warmly than a married man should, when Peter Frampton had driven up and got out of his car, his face a mask of rage.
Paul had extracted himself and made his escape.
He listened to what Agatha and Charles had to say. They told him about visiting Frampton at his building works, about the visit to the history don and Agatha wondering if Frampton could be crazy enough to kill to get his hands on that diary.
Paul took it down from the bookshelves. “It’ll take some time to read through it,” he warned. “It’s very closely written.”
“I’ll make coffee,” said Agatha. “You read.”
She went off into the kitchen, once so familiar to her. Paul, like the previous owner, John, had not made any great changes to it. She sighed as she located a jug of instant coffee and began to make three mugs of it.
When she returned to the living-room, Charles was slumped on the sofa, half asleep, and Paul was still reading intently. The soft glow of the reading lamp over his head turned his white hair to gold. He was really very attractive, thought Agatha with a pang. I wish Charles would take himself off.
At last Paul gave an exclamation. “I’ve got it,” he said. “Listen to this. ‘My dearest and only child Priscilla is causing me Distress. She is Enamoured of one John Towdey, a Cromwellian. I have sent word to her forbidding her to see him, but she is a Stubborn child and with me gone, may Disobey me.’”
“I really wonder if that’s what he was after,” said Agatha. “I think I’ll go and have a talk with Bill tomorrow.”
“You can’t say anything about the diary,” warned Paul. “We’d need to say how we found it.”
“I won’t, but I must say something to turn Bill’s mind in Frampton’s direction.”
“Why don’t we just confront Frampton? Bluff. Tell him we know it’s him.”
“This is one time I think the police should handle it. Do you want to come with us tomorrow?”
Charles rose from the sofa and stretched and yawned. “I’m tired, Aggie. Let’s go to bed.”
